


Easy, Tiger

by ghosty



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Bartenders, Clubbing, Desperation, F/M, Hedonism, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Irony, Lust at First Sight, Mutual Pining, POV Dirk Strider, Slow To Update, Unresolved Sexual Tension, these tags make it seem so much worse than it is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 09:37:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6978073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghosty/pseuds/ghosty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And this is a secret. Sometimes, she looks at you. Your stare is potent, and has the tendency to make someone's hair stand on edge and see who is it that is looking at them. So you look at her and wish wish wish that she will feel that and come walking up to the bar to talk to you. Don't you? Maybe you don't — she might be everything you hate in the female sex, and that thought is terrifying. You want her to stay right where she is and never speak your name.</p><p>You would give up every worldly possession to have her look at you. God tips his hat, and she does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> i started writing this years ago good lord but you know what, let's live a little.

Bartenders are supposed to be cute. Bartenders have a nice smile, have the sort of broad shoulders that you instantly have x-ray vision for, and glowing, glistening eyes that can find you even in the dimmest of lights. They always have beautiful arms and hands that cradle you— your drink carefully as it mixed. The ice clinks in the glass softly amidst the throbbing bass, and on the most inherent level, the bartender is not a man who is serving drinks, he is a poised lion who is letting you dance on his territory, and his target in question is unquestionably looking quite zebrattic today.

The DJ is normally really good, but tonight he is really fucking up. The beat is completely off, and some really dumb looking brunette is asking for a Cosmo, which you whip up with too much ice, but that's cool, she looks like she'd prefer it watered down anyway. Can we talk about the blonde? You always want to talk about the blonde.

Bartenders are supposed to be the predators with all the prey in the world whom they never touch. Bartenders are gods, statuesque creatures that will watch you from the counter with crystalline eyes to remind you that they are powerful and you? You are not.

She is defeating that theory with great fervor.

She is kind of short, and her hair is short and something between flippant and waves, her eyes are the colour of stained cathedral glass, she dances and dances like a child that's been dancing since the beginning of time. Is that cliche? You're sure it is, but _god_ you still want to kiss her shoulders more than anything. A man smoking a cigarette asks for a Corona and you distractedly hand it to him with the lemon wedge, and he scoffs a little at how you are definitely not paying attention to him, but you cannot bring yourself to care about it. He's meat. She's perfect. Look at her; the club chameleon, you feel sick because the way all the lights cycle over her skin so easily, so naturally, is the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. Her hands move to her hair — _fuck_ you love it when she does that — and you hold your breath as she tangles them in it and dips so low, laughing with her friends who wolf-whistle good-naturedly.

She's been frequenting this places for months now, and you don't even know her name. She is just unreachable, the cookie jar on the top shelf, that is all. You find all the joy in the world just pining for her and watching her and— 

 

(And this is a secret. Sometimes, she looks at you. Your stare is potent, and has the tendency to make someone's hair stand on edge and see who is it that is looking at them. So you look at her and wish wish wish that she will feel that and come walking up to the bar to talk to you. Don't you? Maybe you don't — she might be everything you hate in the female sex, and that thought is terrifying. You want her to stay right where she is and never speak your name.)

You would give up every worldly possession to have her look at you. God tips his hat, and she does.

 

In the middle of a really fucking cute laughing fit, her closed eyes open and scan the room, just so happening to see that _oh my god the bartender is staring at me oh my god i hope i didn't do anything oh my god _look you recognized immediately and without missing a beat, put on a million-dollar smile that no soul had immunity to. She freezes and reels. Her dancing decays into soft swishing of the hips and shoulders and she nurses her lip but she doesn't look away.__

__This happens infrequently. The club has several floors, and she understandably peruses them depending on her mood. You aren't always working when she's here. One might ask, "Hasn't she come up for a drink, surely?"_ _

__She doesn't. She drinks water, which is obtainable anywhere. Why. Why, why, why. She's at least 21, she has a wristband to prove it, and yet..._ _

__—_ _

__"So... Are you rapt for the clap? Are you earnest for the female furnace? Finally going in for the kill?"_ _

__"I think, and I mean this truly tentatively as in maybe, I might take the cheapest bottle we own, and break it over your skull, and then we can add that to your collection. We'll call it Asshole Surprise."_ _

__"Great Scott, you adore her more than I believed! I've underestimated you, good chap. So how will you progress?"_ _

___By making a huge fucking ass of myself and watching her laugh discreetly at me every time she walks in again_ , you thought to reply with brutal honesty, but instead roll a towel between your palms to clean them, and acted as if you hadn't heard Jake at all. _ _

__There are thirteen seconds between the time that Jake accidentally chips a glass in the sink, and when you subtly hear the sound of her protesting, and then for the first time in a million years, she arrives at the pearly gates, holy as the sea in the churning lights. The pieces are easy to put together — her friends coerced her into finally getting something to drink, obvious from the excited stares of anticipation across the room where she was before. The floor falls away underneath you, the room suspends in time, and you hold onto the counter so tightly the skin on your knuckles feels like it might rip._ _

__"Umm, hi." Her voice is drowned in the pounding bass and crowd. "Can I get a... a Sprite?"_ _

__You forgot everything. You forgot your name, where you were, your job, date of birth, everything ever. The idea of water or air or walking was incomprehensible. Breath came into your lungs, miraculously, and you did nothing but stare blatantly at her. Was your jaw hanging? Were your palms sliding off the countertop? Some faraway sense of reality possessed you, and like a robot, you nodded and turned to the cooler. You don't remember finding the Sprite, but you do, and the chill of it in your hands restores a little bit of your sanity._ _

__By the time you make it back to her, she's pushed against the bar all tight and mousy-looking, twisting her fingers in front of her. She looks anywhere but at you, and it's totally apparent that she is really nervous about talking to you. Bartenders are intimidating for some people, it's cool. She goes here all the time, of course she'd be nervous about talking to the bartender she's never spoken to before. You put on your award winning smile, make a perfect glass of Sprite on the rocks, and slide it to her with a gentle push that lands it right at the edge of the counter. It earns a surprised laugh, and she takes it, reaching for her wallet._ _

__"No, no," you say, firm. "On the house. Let me know if you need anything else, okay?"_ _

__The DJ appears to have gotten his act together. She is distracted by the music, but you have set your mind on keeping her attention, and roll right up to the counter, leaning on it just as she was. Too close. You think you can smell her. Jake's gaze on you burns like an untended furnace and a quick glance at her friends shows just the same._ _

__"Thank you," she replies, awkwardly smiling. Her lips are soft and sweet and pink. She licks them after she takes a sip, and declares, "It's great. Thank you."_ _

__God is not so generous, of course. People are attracted to your magnetic charm, but also mostly liquor, and there is a small queue appearing behind her. No. No, no, no, no, no. Your jaw sets and you want to leave the bar and follow her and dance with her and never leave again. You both could disappear into the crowd, you could cushion her between your body and the wall and your hands and sink your teeth into her. You could take her home and intimately acquaint yourself with ever inch of her skin in a bubble bath and rub her precious feet and procure the most vintage wines you kept in the very back. You could kiss her. Keep her. Cool, so, maybe you didn't really know her, and it is really fucking strange that all she ordered was a Sprite and she barely said a word, but nothing could stop the hypnotic force that was her neckline and god damn her fucking siren skin that sizzled against the lights and the utterly devastating vision of her eyes. But no, no, no, the voice in your head whispers softly. There is so much more. The girl is so different. Nobody has ever walked into this establishment that could ever compare to her, her manner, her style, her personality._ _

__By the time you blink, she's slipped away into said crowd and you are instantly, frantically searching for her, but there is a line. You have never made drinks so fast in your life. Jake sits in the back, laughing at you (not unkindly) and your hands are shaking so bad that he actually pours you a shot of brandy that you down like it's water._ _

__Jake says something you don't register, and he's wiping tears from his eyes with a huge grin, and your throat is on fire, and you don't know what to do. The countertop won't do as a crutch anymore, because you are so fucking strung out that you are legitimately worried that if you mix another drink, the glass is going to obliterate in your hand._ _

__"Jake," you finally choke out. "She's perfect."_ _

__"Dirk," he says. "Your dialogue lasted a banging twenty seconds and she ordered a Sprite."_ _

__Nevertheless, you ignore him and your heart melts in your chest when you finally find her again. Her group is still in their usual corner, and she is smushed up against a girl, giggling profusely and spinning in grinding circles, all crackling and gorgeous. The bottom of her deep purple dress swishes around her thighs, and they drop, and pop up again, and laugh harder._ _

__She looks back at you only once — at least, that's all you caught. It's short, but her expression is meaningful and yet you can't read it at all. She and her friends leave not terribly long afterwards, and the whole world goes grey when she does._ _

__You go home and jack off in the shower until the water is cold and you are gasping for air._ _


	2. Chapter 2

This is a problem.

"You've drank from the Devil's cup, my friend," Jake is saying as you wipe glasses clean to perfection. Each chalice is shimmering when you're done, and you artfully line them along the shelves, in teetering pyramids and elaborate architecture. "You can't just have a sip without wanting more! Or, even, you've proven the Lays motto. Say, what is that?"

His eyes have captured a ripped-off piece of notebook paper that you had put on the counter for a moment. It's very innocent looking — only folded in half once, with scribbled pen marks on it. While you could lie, and tell him it's someone you need to call later about the tap draft shipment, panic sweeps in first and you have it smashed into your pocket in a fraction of a nanosecond. Jake blinked, and it was gone.

A wry smile came upon his face, and for a long moment, you lean down, putting your elbow on the counter, your face in your hands, your fingers in your hair.

"I'll admit, I have no clue what could be on that." He says this and claps his hand on your shoulder. "But I would probably bet the farm to say it has something to do with the blonde succubus, eh?"

"Jake," you say into your palms. "Die."

He laughs, but doesn't press. 

It is no surprise when the rest of the evening is spent in complete distraction. Trips were made from room to room with no memory of it happening, several items almost shattered on the floor, and before long, it was evident that you really needed to sit down.

A waitress from downstairs brings up a glass of gin and tonic, and you sip on it, all slumped back on a leather chaise that about a million people have made out on. Your fingers rub circles on a tear in the upholstery, and you slow your breathing.

The really horrible reality is the fact that you will have to wait an indeterminate amount of time to ever, ever, ever see her again, let alone speak to her. She is living an entire life without you. The girl is nameless, ageless, inconceivable until she returns. An imprint of bright eyes, smooth skin, perfect laugh. The peculiar girl

who ordered a Sprite

and only ever drank water

and never danced with anybody but her friends

and smiled all the time.

 

You needed to do something. Now.

 

The chaise was empty a second later and you were walking purposefully down the stairs and up to the front. A bunch of the DJ's dancers had shown up already, and were whispering as you walked by — the usual, really, because you were extremely good looking. With perfectly swept golden hair and whiskey eyes and mouthwatering physique, it was incredibly difficult to find someone who rocked the sleet white collar/black vest look like you did. Really. But, digressing, you made it to the front desk and tapped the ever-irritable Mr. Captor on the shoulder.

"Sol, I need you to help me out. Life and death situation. I will pay handsomely."

He turned, always slicing the air as he did, because there was no motherfucker sharper than this guy. His gaze, bored and severe, combined with his blade-edge haircut and pinstriped attire, made him totally terrifying eight days a week. He took off his glasses, cleaned a smudge on his vest, and said very calmly, "If you think I'm going to pothe ath your boyfriend for a thecond time, then you've got another thing coming, you thack of thi—"

"Last night, a girl came in with three friends. She was blonde, sort of short hair, and wearing a purple dress. I think one of her friends had a black pixie cut and glasses. Did you get any names? Did they pay with a card, or check, or anything?"

Captor looked amused. "I believe one of the ladieth that came with them did. Enlighten me ath to why you would like to know."

You plucked your wallet out of your pocket, flipped it open, and thumbed out something that sounded mysteriously like crispy, crispy Benjamin Franklin, and he added, "I think her name wath Peta. The one with the debit card."

"They usually all come in together, yeah?"

"Yeth."

You rolled the cash into his hand, giving him a stare that was liquid heat, and said with absolution, "Let me know the blonde one's name the second you get it. And let her in for free from here on out."

He had the decency to look surprised, and perked a brow as he slid the bills into his vest pocket. "Ath you with, Thrider. Now leave me the hell alone."

Maybe the room was brighter. Maybe the perfume of the dancers was getting to you, maybe the gin was doing its work, maybe a thousand things were what had made you feel that relieved or whatever the hell you wanted to call it but you went to the back and you were more sedated and all was well. Jake was chatting up one of the girls, and the sound system was being tested. The manager floated by to make sure everything was going well, and not long afterwards, the doors opened and you rolled up your sleeves and cracked your knuckles.

It was understandable that each and every night would be longer and harder now. More of an ordeal than ever. But at least your sexual frustration was a tangible monster that lured in more earnest ladies and gentlemen than before, and you mixed drinks with renewed fervor. And you thought of her. And you got tips out of the fucking wazoo. And you thought of her.

When the club closes, everyone leaves like rats. Jake, while having adequately flirted, is far too modest to ever take a girl home, and he leaves after a quick sweep of your floor. Captor is quick at making sure that all the money matters are in order, before abandoning ship like a ghost — you can't help but notice he's actually talking to some woman you've never seen before, who wasn't a dancer, and she wasn't an attendee, because she was dressed far too casually. But digressing. Equius, the bouncer, stands at the front, always patiently on guard to make sure no extras try to slip in to wreak havoc while clean up is taking place.

The manager slides you your check with a nod of appreciation, which you return. She's very classy, and has never given you any shit, and you are quite content to have her as your boss.

After hours of throbbing bass and sweat and heat and alcohol and ice, the back doors open with perfect silence. The leather slides over your arms like a glove, and the helmet surrounds your head, and the engine purrs at your touch. A twitch of the palm, the heel, and you are uncatchable black blur that streaks down the asphalt like a shadow.

The drowning hum that was your precious motorcycle was always a welcome distraction from work. The speed was captivating, the rush unmatched to anything else (well, spare one heinously glaring exception), the twinkling lights around you there and gone in passing fractions of time. Red lights were always pushed to the very edge of the envelope, and when it was too blatant to run, you sat impatiently, too wired to wait. The drivers around you all pinned you as reckless and risky, and they were completely right. In fact, it was probably worse than they thought. The light turned green four cars in front of you, and you easily made your own lane, passing the Honda up front as if it had broken down in the intersection. Honking sounded out, but you only laughed and weaved in and out of the three a.m. traffic, blissful and unhinged.

It is only a ten minute drive home, and it is a fact that you spite like hell. Beggars can't be choosers, however, and you are lucky to have a cushy apartment downtown with a magazine-worthy view of the city. You park your baby with the utmost care (particularly in comparison to your driving), and drudge into the elevator, and drag yourself to your door, and barely care enough to lock it when you get inside. Your jacket and helmet are discarded to the side and the keys tossed on the side table with your shades.

You have the day off tomorrow, which is a blessing and a curse. Sleep is sounding really fucking good right about now, and your eyes are heavy and your head is whirring and your feet are going strong towards your bedroom. You drag your fingers against the wall as you walk, half to give you something to reference where you were, half to keep you awake, and your heart is pounding in your chest. It will take ages for it to cool off and slow down. There is no way you could physically get yourself into a cold shower at this point, you are drained harder than Dracula's first meal. Clothes hit the floor. You hit the bed in your undershirt and tie and unbuttoned slacks.

Shamelessly and endlessly, you dream of her.


	3. Chapter 3

Fourteen hours and thirty seven minutes later, you wake up. It's late afternoon, judging by the sunlight, and your vision is blurred hard. The bed is too comfortable. Why is your tie still on? Why do you give a fuck? Answer: you don't.

The rest of your outfit makes it to the floor when the shower welcomes you with open arms and scorching water. The subhuman sensation boils away, and you leave gratefully clean and sentient.

The usual routine, after this, is traditionally something like making breakfast, starting up the computer, putting on CSPAN and cleaning up last night's exhausted mess. Laundry-doing seems imminent, so you go prop the washer open and start throwing things in, and look for your cell phone. You find it in your slacks on the bathroom floor. There are two texts, and the battery is almost dead.

One is from Jake, asking if you're up for FNM. No, not really. You are contemplating laying on the couch and masturbating and watching Batman and porn. Maybe next week.

The next is spam. It is deleted into oblivion.

Breakfast consists of eggs, toast, OJ, and peanut butter. Peanut butter is really goddamn good, fuck off. Jake pleads for you to come, offers to pay the entry fee, but you are sore and salty from the newfound lack of blonde succubus, as Jake had deemed her, and tell him no again.

The rest of the day passes in this manner: slowly, uneventfully, normally.

You watch tentacle porn hentai and have a glass of wine. You order Chinese for dinner. Everything is quite relaxing, and your huge bay windows display the city shifting naturally from sunny day to mischievous night, and your phone is dead, so there is not a single interruption when you shut your eyes tight and clench your erection and urgently, urgently pull and slide and twist — she is mewling and whimpering and your mouth is consuming hers entirely, her breasts are pert in your hands and you thumb her nipples as you fuck her, biting and sucking on her lip, murmuring about how devastatingly good she sounds and how unthinkably wet she got for you. In seconds, literal seconds, you make a noise that you are really glad nobody else would ever hear, and go limp against the cushions, damp and great and still somehow completely unsatisfied. So, The Dark Knight gets put on. Chinese is eaten.

You charge your phone. There is one new text.

It is from Sollux Captor.

Your heart stops in your chest. It comes back with a temperature that rivals the sun and the pace of Road Runner. Sollux Captor never texts you. You didn't even know he had your number. You type in your password wrong six times before getting it right because your hands are trembling and the message opens and you groan loudly but you're smiling, and you breathe "fuck fuck FUCK" under your breath a million times and then are off haphazardly stumbling across the apartment, looking for clothes. Every blood cell in your body has turned to adrenaline, and thinking straight is kind of difficult, because you can't find any clothes at all. Your closet is pretty bare, there's nothing on your floor, and it dawns on you in complete horror that all of your clothes are in the washing machine, because you decided to wash them, and because you didn't put them in the drier when the load had finished. Holy shit. You have no underwear, and nothing but tanktops and total shit that you would rather die than have her see you in.

Holy shit, though. Holy fucking shit.

_Hey. Her name is Roxy. Didn't catch her last name. She's here, by the way._

The awkward decision is made to grab clothes that didn't make it into the washer yet. But at least the shirt is your favorite one, you still have clean ties, and the slacks aren't wrinkled badly at all. More time is spent in the bathroom, splashing water on your face and rearranging your hair (it doesn't require as much work as you'd think; you have it down to an art anyway) and flash stepping down to your bike is a breeze afterwards. And so is going 120 down the street, perilously close to side mirrors, and making the occasional car come to a screeching halt. It occurs to you at some point that you forgot your helmet and you're not sure if you locked your door, but, you know.

Her name is Roxy.

Literally every light you hit is red, and literally every light is blown through without a second thought. You're going too fast for the cameras to catch you regardless. And cops have better shit to deal with on Saturday nights.

When you arrive at The Matriarch, it's loud and there are a lot of drunk people. You carefully swing around to the back where you cannot park fast enough and then you barely say hello to some guys on their smoke break and then you are in.

It's late, so there are about six couples all getting their freak on on the surrounding chairs and walls and whatever else can support them. The DJ is seriously into what he is throwing out on the speakers, and there is a completely hypnotized, buzzed crown all bouncing and bumping in front of him.

Your eyes rake the room.

At first, you go upstairs and hang against a railing, searching hard for any blonde, always disappointed when you realize it's not her. It is a thousand times worse when there's a girl with black hair standing with her. The bottom floor has been scoured completely, and you have to give up and move on. The same goes for the second floor. The third floor is your last option, unless she's in the bathroom but you'll worry about that later, and you circle the room expertly, declining offers for dances or drinks and slowly becoming depressed because it's been twenty minutes now and you can't find her.

For a second you entertain the idea that maybe Sollux was fucking with you. Maybe this was a really, really sick, cruel, disgusting joke, but it doesn't seem like him, and you really don't want to commit battery on the doorman, so you opt to push for the (your) bar and ask the other bartender if they've seen her.

Said drink mixer is currently smiling toothily, exuding her typical aura of extremely unsettling and invading your personal space bubble even though there's four feet and a counter between you. Pyrope is unnerving. She is legally blind, her red and black eye makeup is vogue but intimidating, and the way she speaks and laughs and the words she uses all just give you the feeling that she can look straight through your soul. Some people think it's enticing — it can be easily mistaken for feistiness — and the rest all take her extremely seriously and believe that if you rub her the wrong way for a second, she will put something disturbing in your drink that you will never taste nor know of its origin.

She's mostly harmless.

"Strider!" Her voice sings and she grins. "Fancy seeing you here on your day off. Am I in trouble, and would you like a drink?"

"Thanks, but no. And you're fine. But, I need to know if you've seen any group of girls, one would be blonde with sort of short hair, she has a friend with a black pixie cut and glasses, they keep to themselves, don't really mingle much... It's important."

"Hmmm? I think I saw them maybe an hour ago. The little blonde one kept eyeing the shelves pretty hard for a few minutes... What's got your panties in a knot?"

"Have they been up here since?"

"Not to my knowledge. Rrrr, I'd like to help you, Strider, but I have customers. I wish you luck."

They aren't up there. The last resort is, obviously, the informant who led you here in the first place.

The trek back downstairs is long and makes you depressed. 

Everyone parts around you like a sea. It seems like nearly every person is disoriented, lost, starry-eyed and drunk. It smells too much like hormones, and maybe the vague interlacing smoke of weed and sweat and flirting. The lights are a speeding rainbow and after what feels like hours, you dazedly see Sollux at his post, leaning over and smartly speaking to the same lady from before. She has thick, forever-reaching, dark curls and you come closer, and there's a look on her face like Mr. Captor is the only thing that exists in the world and there is no such thing as drumstep and strobes and crowds.

There is no sign of Roxy, though, and that is what makes you carelessly pop their perfect bubble and interrogate.

"Pardon my interrupting, but I need a word with you."

Sollux looks like a tic just appeared in his left eye but he is cooler and drier than a martini, and he turns to his lady-friend who looks a little embarrassed and is looking anywhere but at you. He mumbles something you don't catch, and she bites her lip before waving sheepishly as she absconds.

He turns his attention to you.

"Pleath tell me thith ith important," he drawls, highly unimpressed with the situation. Somehow, you cannot bring yourself to give a fuck.

"I can't find Roxy, or any of her friends. I checked every floor. Terezi said she saw them a while ago, but I was hoping you'd be so kind as to tell me if I'm just really fucking stupid, orrr..."

"Chritht on the croth, I thent you that text hourth ago. It'th been ageth thinth they left."

A long moment of silent stretches. The DJ pauses to chat up the crowd encouragingly, and Sollux has the decency this time to look a bit sympathetic. You'd like to hear him say 'sympathetic'.

"Really?" You didn't really mean to say that. Sollux rolls his eyes, though not unkindly.

"Thorry, dude. I'll let you know if they come in again."

That was his dismissal. He gives you a short nod, and turns back to his podium. There's only another moment or two of hovering before you abandon the area, quietly and tiredly pulling out your phone to run your finger across the screen and press and read that a specific text was sent literally over four hours ago, while the phone was dead and you were living it up on the couch.

There are not really words to talk about the feelings you felt. Nothing conveys the lack of material existence in your stomach, the airlike emptiness of your skull. The wind doesn't seem to touch you on the drive home. Your bones are plastic. The world is soft, grey around the edges, not like the welcoming abyss of sleep, but like a ghost you cannot catch.

You miss someone that you've never met. There's some sort of guilt in that fact, perhaps shame. 

But really, there is nothing in the world quite like...


End file.
